


the christmas curse

by olive2read



Series: The 12 Bottles of Christmas [1]
Category: Schitt's Creek
Genre: 5+1 Things, Candy Canes, F/F, Holiday Traditions, It's Not Paranoia If They're Really Out To Get You, Podfic Welcome, Rare Pairings, SC Timeline Handwaving, Snow in Schitt’s Creek!, Twyla’s Concoctions, Twyla’s Cousins & Related Shenanigans, Vicarious Embarassment, Wine
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-14
Updated: 2019-10-14
Packaged: 2020-10-04 06:24:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,675
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20466491
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/olive2read/pseuds/olive2read
Summary: OR how 12 days turned into 12 bottlesOR 5+ christmases where Stevie felt cursed and 1 where she didn’t__And featuring the first bottle of the year





	the christmas curse

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [[art] the christmas curse](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21014837) by [nervouscupcakeinspace](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nervouscupcakeinspace/pseuds/nervouscupcakeinspace). 
  * In response to a prompt by Anonymous in the [SCFrozenOver](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/SCFrozenOver) collection. 

> **Prompt**:  
The origin of the Twelve Bottles of Wine tradition. Or maybe five Christmases when Stevie celebrated with twelve bottles of wine and one Christmas where she had a better distraction? Extra bonus points for any and all Stevie femslash!
> 
> __  
Some of this story is pre-canon, some takes place during seasons 3 & 4, and the end is set during the December immediately following season 5. Lots of timeline handwaving happening here.
> 
> Thanks to Emu for all the help with CanCon!
> 
> All my love and gratitude to the incredible collaborative team that transformed this work, and the broader series, from a glimmer of an idea into reality!!  
[sonlali](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sonlali) -AND- [cupcake](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nervouscupcakeinspace)
> 
> Words cannot express.
> 
> And lali, babe, the scenarios we built in this … just, wow.

Stevie looked out at the people merrily tying trees from Ray’s stand to their cars, snow falling softly around them, and grimaced. Ugh. Another Christmas. She poured herself a generous glass of wine, glad she was curled up safely at home. One week of December down with no major mishaps.

It wasn’t that Stevie didn’t like Christmas, far from it. Stevie _loved_ Christmas. Loved decorating, loved the smell of fresh trees, loved presents, loved the twinkling lights, loved snowmen and Santa Claus and the slightly creepy Rudolph, with pulsing red eyes instead of a cheery red nose, that Bob put on top of the garage every year. He swore it had come that way but he never seemed to get around to fixing it. She loved candy canes and stockings and cocoa. She loved dressing in dark, heavy layers and thick, woolly scarves that covered her face, and all things winter. Hell, she even loved figure skating, not that she’d ever willingly admit that aloud to another living soul. Some secrets were going with her to the grave.

Considering the past decade or so, however, Stevie had come to terms with the fact that Christmas didn’t love her. That Christmas was, in fact, out to get her.

This wasn’t something she told people, obviously, and for eleven months of the year she was generally able to block it out it entirely. Even during December it didn’t always feel real because, honestly, what sort of delusional paranoia would it take to convince someone that Christmas, of all things, was out to get them? Some years, things were fine and it felt like Christmas passed her by entirely. Some years were festive, and jolly, and full of good cheer, as though Christmas wanted to lull her into a false sense of security so that the next incident would feel that much worse. 

Stevie prided herself on the fact that she was not the sort of person to subscribe to nonsensical conspiracy theories but there came a point when the evidence was too compelling to ignore. She didn’t know why, or how, but she definitely knew that Christmas had it in for her.

She could trace things back at least nine years. Back then, there had been some faulty wiring in her apartment, which she had known moving in, and it had never really been a problem. After the first few fuses had blown, she’d simply made sure that she never used more than one appliance and limited herself to only having one light switch on at a time. It got a little tricky when she wanted to watch tv and the refrigerator kicked on, but once she’d started streaming things on her laptop, which she could charge at the motel, that had more or less stopped being a problem. She told herself that restricting her electricity usage was good for the planet and kept carefully to her system.

That year, her first back from college, she hadn’t been able to afford much in the way of decorations but she’d found a tiny pre-lit christmas tree and a bunch of tiny ornaments that she hadn’t been able to resist. It had only made sense to run an extension cord in from the neighbouring building to ensure that she could leave it turned on. A few extra blankets on the bed and she’d hardly noticed the icy drafts from the window she’d had to leave cracked open. There was no way she could’ve predicted that her twelve-inch tree, with its eighteen teeny bulbs, would somehow blow the grid, plunging the entire town into darkness. No way she could’ve known that the Schitt’s Creek power grid was an intricately balanced house of cards, needing only the slightest nudge to topple. Besides, the resulting fire had been easily contained and the damage minimal. Also, it had meant that everything in town got rewired and, yeah, okay, that had taken about three years of rolling brown outs, but they were all much safer now. So, really, if one took the long view, she’d done everyone a favour.

However traumatic that first holiday disaster had been, and there were still people who muttered about it not-quite-under-their-breath when they saw her, she hadn’t based the theory about Christmas’s vendetta against her solely on that. It had taken a few more misadventures, including one legitimate catastrophe, for the pattern to become obvious.

The next incident had happened two years later. As she’d been walking into town from the motel, Roland had driven by in the snow plow, probably more than a little drunk on Twyla’s famous eggnog, weaving haphazardly through the streets, singing ‘Jingle Bell Rock’ at the top of his lungs, and he’d taken a corner too fast. The impact of the snow had sent her sprawling and then she’d been buried under the wave of snow, and ice, and gravel, and who knows what other road debris that had followed. [1] Luckily, the pile hadn’t been all that deep and it hadn’t taken her very long to dig herself out afterward, people drove that stretch pretty regularly so, even with the inconsistent plow schedule, there hadn’t actually been that much snow, all told, but the small scraps of dignity she clung to had been in tatters.

Thank God for her boots and snow jacket, or she would’ve been a complete wreck. Still, the snow had dripped coldly into awkward places and she’d spent a solid half hour under the shower before running herself a warm bubble bath and breaking into the wine. Her legs, face, and hands, basically everything not protected by her boots or jacket, had been covered in shallow cuts and small bruises, including a welt across her left cheekbone, for the next few days. Seeing as there was absolutely no way she was answering impertinent questions about the origin of the marks, it had also meant she couldn’t get laid for a week, which was a low blow, quite frankly.

Then there was the time, six years ago, when the town council had decided they wanted to erect an enormous tree in the centre of town, à la Rockefeller Center. Twyla, some of her cousins, and some of the townies, had brought a ton of weed to the big lighting ceremony and Stevie had only been too happy to help them smoke it. Twyla’s cousins weren’t exactly known for their good taste but they always had quality weed. A few of the cousins had some kind of contest going to see who could roll the fattest joint, that was still structurally sound, and Stevie had blown all of their efforts out of the water. She’d thoroughly enjoyed all of the glory they’d showered upon her, at least until they’d insisted that she smoke it. She’d pre-partied with a bottle of wine, well, really it had been two, and so, when they’d urged her on, the idea hadn’t set off her public embarrassment alarm bells in the way it typically would have.

She wasn’t entirely sure how the plan had come into being, or why she’d agreed to participate, her memories of that part of the night were patchy and fuzzy around the edges, but somehow she’d ended up under the tree, inside one of the huge papier-mâché presents that Jocelyn’s class had created. The best she could figure was that they’d been planning some kind of surprise for the town where a few of them burst out of the presents, like Debbie Reynolds bursting out of a cake in Singing in the Rain, [2] as soon as the tree was lit but she honestly couldn’t remember. There was no way she’d have consented to do it alone, or if she’d been sober, and she still couldn’t quite work out how they’d gotten her to play along. It was so far outside of her usual behaviour that her mind shied away like a skittish colt whenever she tried to access those memories.

Regardless, when the lights went on, _everyone_ had seen her, and only her, shivering in her underwear and covered in the gloppy remnants of painted paper and starch where her designated present had collapsed around her as she’d tried to climb in. Though, honestly, _someone_ should really have put more thought into what cold, damp weather would do to things constructed entirely from paper and water soluble adhesive. It probably wouldn’t have been that bad, her personal humiliation aside, but as she’d slipped and slid, trying to stand up and slink away, she’d knocked into one of the supports and the entire tree had come crashing down on top of the spectators. There were still people in town who crossed the street to avoid her and Stevie had never fully recovered from the look of horror and disappointment on Aunt Maureen’s face.

That was the year she’d decided that, since she and Christmas weren’t on very friendly terms, it would behoove her to stay out of Christmas’s way. She avoided as many Christmas themed activities as she could, relying on her reputation as a grumpy loner to get out of invites, when an ominous reminder that she had been responsible for the tree and the brownouts didn’t cut it, and loaded her cupboards with wine to help her get through the holidays.

It seemed like the logical choice, especially since Stevie liked wine as much as the next person. Well, actually, no, that was flagrantly false. Stevie liked wine a lot _more_ than the next person, so buying wine had always made sense when she was picking out presents for herself, and now she had even more reason to be sure that area of her cupboards never stayed bare.

As she’d merrily imbibed her second bottle of wine on the Christmas following the tree debacle, she’d started humming the “Twelve Days of Christmas,” replacing the word ‘day’ with ‘bottle’ at the beginning of each verse. It hadn’t made much sense but it had been entertaining. Then she’d had the (slightly tipsy) epiphany that she could rewrite not only her holiday traditions, but also the song itself. The syllables didn’t quite fit, and her lyrics certainly weren’t anything to write home about, but it brought her such glee as she sang it in her head, choosing each year’s twelve bottles. Sometimes she tweaked it, based on her actual purchases, but the specific wines really weren’t important in the grand scheme of things. It was her own little ‘fuck off’ to the Christmas curse and it had kept her well insulated against holiday mishaps for the past few years.

> For the twelve wines of Christmas my own self gave to me  
Twelve screw caps twisting,  
Eleven empties clinking,  
Ten invites avoided,  
Nine cheesy movies,  
Eight creepy reindeer,  
Seven cozy blankets,  
Six days of guzzling,  
Five white zins,  
Four cab savs,  
Three fruit wines,  
Two booty calls,  
And my favourite mug to drink them all down  


The original version had ended with ‘and a merry fucking cursedmas to me’ but she’d thought it might be pushing her luck to invoke the very thing she was trying to avoid.

Initially, she’d simply bought the cheapest wine she could get from the general store’s meagre selection. That had worked until the year everyone had gotten excited about making mulled wine and she’d been stuck drinking the rejected flavours of fruit wine. She didn’t _quite_ count that as a mark against the curse but it was definitely curse-adjacent. Ever since, she’d started purchasing an extra bottle or two each time she bought wine. She’d diligently place the extra bottle in the designated Christmas box and, well, not very many of them managed to stay there all year but _some_ did and she often had about half a case saved up by the time December rolled around.

Then the Roses had come to town and David had opened his store and her options had increased dramatically. Stevie had conscientiously sampled each wine David carried, she saw it as her duty as a friend to ensure that he only stocked quality products and she took this aspect of her friend duties _very_ seriously. She magnanimously extended these duties to cover his selection of cheeses as well. Once she’d decided on her favourites, she simply bought a case the week before Christmas. Honestly, thank God for David and his taste in wine, and thank God for Patrick using his business brain to stock enough inventory that they could sell wine by the case. She blessed their foresight every year. It _had_ forced her to revise her line about twelve screw tops to ‘twelve foil tops crinkling’ – she _still_ giggled every time she remembered David’s reaction to screw-top wine – but that was an easy enough swap, especially once she’d further revised the last line to ‘and a corkscrew to open them all.’

The wine wasn’t a panacea, alas, for all that it significantly reduced the likelihood of success in Christmas’s dastardly plots against her. Two years ago, she’d been helping Jake string lights up along the outside of his woodshop when he’d stepped away to check a ping from Grindr – she’d recognised the awful moany alert he’d set for that app, as he’d been so chuffed when he’d set it that he’d played it for her at least fifty times until she’d smashed his phone and he’d pouted. She’d felt bad enough afterwards that she’d split the cost of his new phone (with an 85-15 split because she hadn’t felt _that_ bad) and she still maintained that the peace in the moment had been worth it. Stevie didn’t understand why Jake even bothered with Grindr, there wasn’t anyone local besides him on it, though, then again, maybe that was really all it was. She knew better than to look for deeper meaning where Jake was concerned. He liked being the only game in town when visitors and tourists drove through on their way to other places. Although, he wasn’t _quite_ the only game in town. A few years before, a couple of Twyla’s cousins had created a profile with the picture of a cow which, according to them, had a success rate on par with Jake’s.

Jake had left her alone atop the rickety ladder, rolling her eyes at herself for helping him while he scheduled his next hookup. It would have been fine, she was steady on her feet and it wasn’t like she didn’t know who Jake was, but then he’d turned around to show her his match’s pic and knocked the ladder out from under her. He’d tried to catch her as she fell, but that had only meant that both of them ended up on the ground in an uncomfortable tangle of limbs and bruises. Thankfully, nothing had been broken. Christmas didn’t seem to be out to kill her, just to mess with her. Jake had had to wear a brace for the next few weeks and Stevie had come away with three stitches and a mild concussion. At least that time she’d had Jake to help keep her awake _all night_.

She’d thought last year would be one of the exceptions. Things had been quiet all month and she’d finally started to relax when Mr. Rose had insisted on a party Christmas Eve and she’d felt a sense of impending doom looming over her. Sure enough, tragedy had soon followed. And that time? Christmas had recruited another holiday to join in on the action.

She’d had such a good time at the party. The Roses were feeling more and more like family. Well, not like her _actual_ family, there weren’t any of them Stevie liked, now that Aunt Maureen had died, but like the family she wished she had. It was so wonderful to be close to them. She was full of the warm fuzzy feelings that came from being Rose-adjacent, as she’d started to think of herself, though she carefully refrained from voicing that out loud to anyone. Once the words had been spoken it would be that much easier for them to pop out at inopportune moments, like in front of David. Then the Jazzagals had sung so beautifully, she and David had shared a teary look which he, of course, had to ruin by calling her out, the jerk, but she’d known he was feeling the love just as strongly as she was. Even Ted’s gingerbread people had been so delicious, and the headless gingerbread invasion she’d enacted with Patrick to troll David had been so entertaining, at least until he’d won the war by eating their army, which she and Patrick had happily joined in on. For the first time in years, she’d let herself get swept up by the festive magic of Christmas and it had been glorious.

Afterward, she’d headed back to the motel office to grab her laptop and lock up. Just as she was tying on her favourite scarf to head out, Mr. Rose had come in, carrying a cheerily lit menorah, with David right behind him holding the box of Aunt Maureen’s ornaments. Mr. Rose had stammered out a thank you for the loan and then had made a lovely speech about the importance of family, talking about how much it meant to him that Stevie had shared part of her family traditions with them and asking if he could leave the menorah on the desk for a few days in order to share his family’s traditions with her. He’d rambled a bit about how Hanukkah was technically over but he still wanted to celebrate with her, because she was like family now, and Stevie’s eyes had started welling up again. It so perfectly mirrored her earlier sentiments and when he’d given her a soft, pleased look full of warmth and affection and hugged her and told her how special she was, well, before she knew it, she’d blurted out, “I love you, too, Dad!” to her utter mortification. David’s eyes had widened, a squiggly smirk playing along his lips, and Mr. Rose had hugged her tighter as she’d fumbled her way through various iterations of “I mean, not _Dad_, of course, I know you’re not my _Dad_, obviously, I meant like _a_ Dad, I mean, that you’re –” until David had thankfully put an end to her rambling by shoving a gingerbread person in her mouth, his eyebrows in his hairline as he shook his head at her in vicarious embarrassment.

That would have been sufficiently awful to include in the column of Christmas wrongs but it had only gone downhill from there. Mr. Rose had released her from the hug, wiping a tear from his face and smiling broadly, then solemnly presented her with a package. Stevie, remembering his last gift, had hesitated before warily opening the present, which seemed to be wrapped in an old fabric bag with a drawstring closure, like a ragged, musty, tapestried version of a Crown Royal bag.

“Well, go on, Stevie,” Mr. Rose had said encouragingly. “Open it.”

She’d smiled nervously, trying to shoot a covert glare at David, who’d been making his anxious and sketched out face, lips pulled back so he looked like a black and white frog, and shaking his head from where he was safely hidden behind Mr. Rose. She’d opened the bag to find an assortment of puzzle pieces. She’d blinked at it for a moment, then cautiously reached into the bag to pull a few out. There were a lot of them and they were very small so she couldn’t get much of a sense of the overall image.

“It’s a puzzle?”

Mr. Rose had gestured animatedly at the bag. “Yes! You spend so much time at the desk and you’re such a smart girl, Stevie, we don’t want you to lose that, and I thought this would help keep your brain sharp.”

Stevie had swirled her head around in a movement that approximated a nod but wasn’t actually meant to convey agreement or approval. She hadn’t known how to respond to that. Mr. Rose had obviously meant it as a compliment but, well, no. She’d settled on, “But there’s no box. How will I know what it’s supposed to look like?”

Mr. Rose had frowned and taken the bag back. “There should be a picture…” He’d rummaged around in the bag and then triumphantly held out an old photograph, slightly crumpled around the edges. Stevie had unfolded it with more than a little trepidation to find a picture of … a baby. It wasn’t, as one might expect for a puzzle featuring a baby, one of those flower babies that had been so popular a few years back; it was just some random baby sitting propped up on a butter churn that Stevie fervently hoped had never again been used to make butter after having a baby’s naked bottom plonked on top. She knew that babies were supposed to be universally cute to people but this one, well, it _wasn’t_. There was something odd, almost feral, in the expression in its eyes and that, combined with the jagged edges of teeth just starting to break through its gums in a rictus grin, completely creeped Stevie out.

She’d known by the silence surrounding her that her face likely reflected her horror but there hadn’t been anything she could do about it. She’d been far too tipsy to mask her true response.

“It-it’s a-a charming rural scene,” Mr. Rose had said, fumbling a little in the face of her expression, though it clearly hadn’t been enough to stop him smiling and nodding supportively at her, his tone jolly as he’d continued, “with a baby. Everyone likes babies. I know how much you like a challenge so I hope it’s alright that it’s missing some pieces. The woman at the rummage sale wasn’t sure which pieces, or-or how many.” Stevie hadn’t managed to do more than blink at him and he’d smiled awkwardly as Stevie had simply made her head swirling not-a-nod again and hoped the floor would swallow her. When that didn’t happen, she’d taken a slow step back toward the counter, then another, contemplating how to make her escape.

She’d heard a frantic “Oh my god” from David as the smell of something burning assaulted her nostrils. Mr. Rose had leapt toward her, wrapping his arms around her neck and slapping the back of her head, smashing her nose into his chest as he told her to stay calm and that everything was going to be fine and he was sure no one would be able to tell. David was making his frog face again and blinking rapidly. When she’d finally broken free of Mr. Rose, she’d turned to find the now-extinguished menorah knocked over, puddles of wax and small burn marks covering the counter. She’d warily lifted a hand to the back of her head and felt more than heard the dry crackles as a chunk of her hair crumbled into her palm. That had been more than she could take and she’d fled, taking solace in closer to fifteen bottles of wine for Christmas last year. She’d worn toques the rest of the winter, as her favourite scarf had burned right along with her hair, and for most of the spring.

Never again, she’d sworn to herself, no more Christmas. She didn’t care if people called her a grinch, she knew the size of her heart was more than adequate, or a scrooge, seeing as it was Christmas itself that was haunting her and she didn’t know how to lift this curse. Better for everyone if she just hunkered down in her apartment for the entire month of December. She had more than enough wine and kraft dinner to make it to January. She would just go to work and come directly back here. No parties, no decorations, nothing even remotely winter-themed would trip her up this time. She’d had a quiet first week of it, she hadn’t even needed to buy her next case of wine yet since she still had a couple of bottles at home, and she’d definitely counted that as a sign she was doing the right thing.

Except, the universe seemed determined to thwart her and throw her into the path of Christmas. Last night, she’d celebrated her success for the first week and reaffirmed her plan but already, today, her resolve was weakening. This morning, Twyla had dropped a small candy cane into her to-go coffee and, instead of demanding the foul Christmas object be removed immediately, she’d felt her face softening into a smile as she’d thanked her. There were wreaths and evergreen garlands with bright lights all along the café walls and her heart had swelled, maybe not three sizes but at least one or two, as she’d headed over to the Apothecary to collect her annual case of wine.

And now, here she was, throwing caution to the wind once again and helping the Roses pick out decorations for what was apparently going to be an annual party, listening to Alexis chatter excitedly about the minor emergencies she’d overcome on her most recent trip to see Ted in the Galapagos, seeing the obvious affection between Mr. and Mrs. Rose, watching David and Patrick fall deeper in love everyday as they planned their wedding … and, well, shit. She just couldn’t escape Christmas. She knew she needed to try, however.

She made her excuses as soon as she could, lingering only long enough for Patrick to ring up this year’s case of her favourite Rose Apothecary Malbec. As she hefted the box and stepped out of the store, she noticed that Twyla was locking up the café. Twyla waved and Stevie nodded in response. They moved toward each other, their apartments were in the same building after all, and struck up a friendly conversation. It was funny, Stevie had known Twyla for basically her whole life but they’d been in different years in school and always run in different circles. Stevie had always been a bit of a loner and Twyla had always been surrounded by a mob of cousins, so they hadn’t really had a chance to become friends until they’d worked together on Cabaret. Since then, they’d been sharing dinner and a bottle of wine once a week or so.

Stevie hadn’t yet told Twyla about her Christmas curse but, then, Twyla had been around during most of those moments and she had always had the sense that Twyla knew more than she let on about things like curses. Right now, for instance, she seemed to have intuited Stevie’s mood as they arrived at their building. Twyla held the building door open for Stevie, telling a story about the time her uncle’s ‘therapy’ monkey had tried to help with decorating the tree by forming balls of shit and throwing them at everyone. Twyla gave the monkey more credit for good intentions than Stevie would have, even if the balls _had_ sort of looked like ornaments. 

Stevie relaxed into listening as they headed up the stairs, reflecting that Twyla had nearly as many shitty, pun intended, stories about Christmas as she did. Twyla’s were less likely to involve personal harm or humiliation but it did alleviate some of her feelings of isolation to know that Christmas could be a jerk to other people. Stevie’s apartment was on the third floor, Twyla lived on the fifth floor, and they’d just gotten to the part of Twyla’s story where the monkey went berserk right in the middle of dinner and so, when they reached the third floor landing, it seemed only natural to invite Twyla in to finish telling it over some wine. They moved comfortably around Stevie’s small kitchen together, chatting and laughing. Stevie got out two wine glasses, forgoing her usual mug, while Twyla unpacked something from the to go containers she’d been carrying.

“Do you have any eggs?” she asked.

Stevie paused, wine glass at her lips, and tried to remember not only if she had eggs but how long ago she’d have bought them and if they’d be edible. She nodded cautiously and Twyla grinned at her. She assembled two plates and put them in the oven to warm, then pulled out eggs and a frying pan. Stevie leaned against the counter and watched as Twyla expertly fried them in lots of butter, then plonked them on top of the piles of rice, hamburger, and gravy she’d pulled out of the oven. She dug around in her bag and gleefully produced a container of slightly squashed canned pineapple chunks, dumping them on top of everything. She presented Stevie’s plate to her with a flourish.

Stevie gulped and attempted a smile. It was so lovely, and so Twyla, for her to share her dinner but Stevie wasn’t entirely sure what to make of the food in front of her.

“What is it?” she asked, striving to keep the skepticism out of her tone.

Twyla smiled excitedly. “It’s loco moco, one of our most popular – and most tropical – menu items.”

Stevie nodded vaguely. “Does loco moco usually come with pineapple?”

“No, isn’t it great? That was my idea! It really emphasises the tropical feel, don’t you think? Little chunks of summer to brighten us from the inside and help us forget the cold grey weather.” Twyla’s eyes sparkled with merriment.

They took their plates and glasses over to the sofa and Twyla watched avidly as Stevie took her first bite. Actually, it wasn’t that bad. It was good, even. The sweet acidity of the pineapple helped cut the rich earthiness of the runny yolks and mushroom gravy, and everything else provided a delicious base. Twyla beamed at her and they clinked glasses and dug in.

They polished off the bottle Stevie had opened the night before and spent the rest of the evening entertaining each other with ever-more-outlandish retellings of Christmases gone bad as they shared the last remaining bottle from Stevie’s previous case. It felt so good to share these memories with someone who understood. Laughing about them with Twyla eased some of the heaviness and hurt she’d been holding in for so long. She still wasn’t quite ready to admit to feeling cursed but, for the first time in years, she felt like she might be able to soon.

As Twyla finished her glass of wine, Stevie chewed on her bottom lip unsure of how to ask Twyla if she perhaps wanted to stay a bit longer. Twyla stood and cleared their plates while Stevie debated her options. She didn’t have any wine left to offer, so she needed another idea. Well, she had no wine but this year’s twelve bottles. Stevie wasn’t sure she could share those. What if something happened this year and she needed them? She rolled her eyes at herself. Fuck it. Maybe it was the wine they’d already shared, maybe it was the sense of lightness from swapping stories, the why of it didn’t really matter. Stevie suddenly wanted to break her tradition. She was tired of the curse having so much power over her. She grabbed a bottle and held it up to Twyla, who was futzing around with something in the kitchen, an eyebrow raised in question. Twyla nodded and Stevie opened the bottle, giving each of them a generous pour.

Twyla came back in from the kitchen and set a warm slice of bread pudding in front of Stevie, topped with the melty goodness of what smelled like the last of Stevie’s butter pecan ice cream. Twyla sat a little closer to Stevie on the couch this time, nudging her shoulder and smiling. Stevie couldn’t help but smile back at her. Twyla snagged a forkful of gooey, cinnamony pudding topped with a glob of ice cream and held it up to Stevie’s lips, her eyes dark and unreadable. Stevie opened her mouth to accept the morsel and closed her eyes in ecstasy as the flavours burst across her tongue. Twyla made a pleased sound and Stevie opened her eyes to find Twyla’s locked on her mouth. She licked her lips and swallowed as Twyla’s gaze heated, tracking the movement. She wasn’t sure who leaned in but suddenly they were kissing and Twyla’s tongue was licking into Stevie’s mouth, chasing the taste of the pudding. 

They broke apart, breathing heavily, and grinning at each other. Twyla put another bite on the fork and held it up to Stevie. Stevie looked from the pudding to Twyla and back again, then shook her head, taking the fork and lifting it to Twyla’s lips. Twyla wriggled in pleasure and opened for Stevie, who barely gave her a chance to chew before she pounced, locking their lips together and revelling in the hot sweetness of Twyla’s mouth.

It took them hours to finish the pudding, interspersed with sips of wine, their kisses gradually becoming stickier and more languorous. Stevie hadn’t made out like this in ages. Actually, strike that, she wasn’t sure she’d ever made out like this before. This wasn’t the frantic fumblings of teenagers who hadn’t figured out what to do with their bodies, nor was it the perfunctory, often overlooked first step on the way to sex. This was a savouring of the sensual feel of Twyla’s tongue as it danced with her own; it was a shared exploration and charting of the corners and contours of each other’s mouths. Stevie relished Twyla’s responsiveness as she made each new discovery, tracing the ridges of her palate, the smooth sharpness of her canines, the tautness of her frenulum, and gladly offered herself to Twyla’s reciprocal investigations.

Despite their having kissed for hours, it was far too soon when Twyla left, needing to get at least a few hours of sleep before her early morning shift at the café, both of them knowing that if she stayed they wouldn’t sleep. Stevie couldn’t stop smiling as she got herself ready for bed. Maybe this year, with Twyla to keep the curse at bay, maybe this time, she’d win.

**Author's Note:**

> **1** I know the snow plow scenario is terrifying (the snow can harden very fast and be incredibly dangerous) but _is_ survivable. [Here's a reporter being hit by snow](https://www.dailymail.co.uk/video/news/video-1085670/TV-reporter-gets-clobbered-wall-snow-plow.html) from a passing plow, much like Stevie was.[return to text]
> 
> **2** If you’re unfamiliar with Singing in the Rain, I highly recommend it. If you’d rather just see the referenced scene, [here you go](%E2%80%9C) 😘[return to text]

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[art] the christmas curse](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21014837) by [nervouscupcakeinspace](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nervouscupcakeinspace/pseuds/nervouscupcakeinspace)


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